The Morose
by an-earl
Summary: "Two gashes branded his left cheek,intertwined in an unmistakable 'x'.One was old,the other,raw and new." Oneshot following the events of Trust and Betrayal. The nefarious Hitokiri Battousai has returned to Kyoto. This is Kenshin's final mission as an assassin. M for blood.


Disclaimer: I do not own any rights to the Rurouni Kenshin franchise. This is merely my fan work. Please enjoy

* * *

Morose- adjective: sullenly ill-humored, as a person or mood- or expressing gloom.

very intensely sad, sombre or dark etc

 **The Morose**

There were only minutes until sundown. He watched, concealed upon the balcony. A row of lanterns swayed in the wind, unlit, making shadows grow and dissipate on his face like bats in a frenzy; constantly rocking back and forth to hide and reveal a thin, yet raw scar. Strikingly prominent and disturbingly graceful, the two gashes branded his left cheek, intertwined in an unmistakable 'x'. He stood in wait, perched above the Kyoto estates, watching the lamp lights blacken into darkness. The last rays of the sunset melted away over the mountains, and the countdown started. Nightfall crept around corners and seeped through the cracks of the highest walls like some demonic disease, consuming the city in gluttonous lust. It tiptoed past unsuspecting people even as they glanced back twice, and they were never seen again. It danced around alleyways and the sudden wind in a path, and painted the floor red to dry magenta. It crept into his heart and clouded his eyes and trapped him in his trance. At night, the death bringer was alive. The boy with the scar left corpses in his wake.

Time ticked on and so did he. Sweeping his eyes over the hulking estate once more, the assassin arched his neck against the stars and steadied himself upon the wooden railing, red hair brushing the rocking lanterns above. Drawing one long, last breath from the air, he jumped.

Silence reigned.

Wooden sandals impacted brick rooftop with calculated precision. He lingered for a while, watching his breath wisp away under the moonlight. It was no different to all the times he had watched other men take their last breath. It was his mission to see to it. And he would see it tonight. Sliding to the end of the rooftop, he flung himself onto the balcony, sleeves flitting behind him and left hand gripped tightly on the sheath of his katana. It had started.

Wooden floorboards sounded upon the balcony with the blunt pounding of men drawing closer. Three dark figures clumsily rounded the corner, voices hushed and katanas glinting like predators baring their fangs. It was naive of them, arrogant even, to think they could deal with their intruder quietly. " How did you get past the ground patrol." " you're here for the clan master!" " who-" " die-"

The assassin with the scar began to walk, unfazed, and seemingly at his leisure, toward the guards at the opposite end. As his right hand drifted to clasp onto the hilt, worn from use, his sauntering gait hurried, gradually, uncannily, breaking into a run. He had only minutes until the entire estate was aroused and minutes more until it was surrounded by the Shinsengumi. Urgency flooded into his bloodstream, and he lunged forward, unsheathing his sword in an instantaneous flash of metal against moonlight.

In a short, deft movement, the assassin glided the blade diagonally across the first man's chest, feeling the rip of his flesh reverberate to the hilt of his katana. He fell on his knees, shadows shifting on a tortured face. The assassin twisted around in inhuman speed, propelling the blade into the back of his neck. His jaws flung wide open. The static look of an almost-scream remained etched on the face. His head was released from body.

The second man lurched at him, but he was ready without a moment to lose. The assassin dug his sword into the sorry-man's stomach, and with no hesitation, dragged the dirtied blade upwards to trace the spine. A flurry of innards fumbled from his body and burst unceremoniously into the air. The stench was unfurling. Blood spouted from the severed wound in frenzy, bathing the floorboards to glisten.

Yanking his katana free, he sidestepped the carnage beside him, and advanced, sleeves dripping wet and face stained the colour of his hair. The third swordsman was shaken to the soul. Wise enough to know he could not escape, yet naive enough to think himself honourable, the last man slashed his blade in a misguided attempt to serve his purpose. The assassin flipped his sword within the second, switching to the backhand hold, and swiped his blade through the tendons of his left ankle. An ear splitting scream rang out though the night.

The assassin bit into the inside of his cheek, mentally berating himself for sheer, stupid tardiness. In a fluid motion, the assassin readjusted his hand grip, left hand clasping over right. He drove the blade up under the man's chin. The scream caught in his throat, reduced into a maniacal gurgling. The assassin heaved his weight upwards, the motion chunky, and unsettlingly slow enough to feel skin split at the tip of the blade. He held on, never looking away as blood, still hot, trickled over his knuckles and hit the floor. He felt the sudden shudder of the blade pause , obstructed, before upheaving the top of the skull and bursting into the open. The mans's eyes were far away and unseeing. They stared wide-eyed and open at nothing and nowhere. The assassin pulled the blade clean from it's victim, seamlessly this time, and stepped knowingly out of the way for the corpse to fall. He had one more to sully his katana with, and carried on without wiping his blade.

* * *

He hurried along, moving soundlessly down arrays of identical corridors; raising his weapon around each winding corner. In his wake, crimson marred his presence. He turned, dismissing another room before fatal breaths of air, muffled and ridden with the faint smell of liquor, drew his attention. He lingered for a moment, lips thinning into a bitter smile. A solemn thought crept through the cracks in his mind. After this, there would be no more blood spill tonight.

The assassin tightened and untightened his grip on the katana, rhythmically, slowing down his very inner workings. Blood and adrenaline pulsated through his every vein. He paced his quickened breathing to mimic his steadying heartbeat, ready to succumb to the hitokiri's trance. He only need sully his blade one last time.

In the blink of an eye, the assassin sprang forward, slitting the wooden door clean off its hinges. Two guards stood ready, both swinging their katanas to catch at his throat, aiming to kill. Clearly, these two were more competant than the men stationed outside. The assassin parried and shifted his weight to strike the closest guardsman. He dodged, lunging backwards to safety, but the assassin's strike carried on without changing direction, digging instead into the flesh of the second guardsman. A yelp escaped. The assassin swivelled to clasp the katana hilt with both hands, and without another moment's delay, dragged the blade horizontally through the stomach, then up to scrape the wedges of the spine.

Almost instantaneously, the blade was ripped free. A cascade of blood erupted from the man's body. He was dead before he hit the floor.

The last man stood dazed, paralysed by the shower of blood. The assassin straightened up and marched forward, watching terror ooze into the whites of the last guardsman's eyes. No words exchanged, no breath drawn, he passed him. In a deft movement, the blade, tainted, was buried into his back from under the assassin's arms. Amber eyes alert, yet unseeing, he plucked the blade from the body, never once glancing back. His shoulders spasmed at the inevitable 'thud' on the floor.

It was over.

He squinted, trying to make out shapes from shadow. For a moment, he recoiled, mind racing as he suspected the Ishin Shi Shi's sources were wrong. The target was not here. But then why were there guards? He swept over the darkness, eyes narrowing over the sudden detection of movement from a back corner. He edged forward. Out of nowhere, his insides shuddered at a telling, high-pitched whimper.

A dark silhouette was slouched against the wall, knees curled up to the chin and fingers clamped over the knees so hard, they dug into the skin. The assassin's eyes widened, a half-breath faltering in his throat. The hairs on the back of his neck pricked in unholy realisation. Amongst the luxury of the room, the killed and the killer, was the unmistakable silhouette of a child. Bronze robes adorned him in a grandiose flaunting of wealth and status. A pair of elongated sleeves were sizes too large, and drooping down to reveal skinny wrists and sweaty palms. He was gasping in the bloodied air now, having abandoned his attempt to hold onto some last semblance of calm. The assassin gawped down at him, mouth parted, watching the kid violently shiver under his layers of finery. He didn't need to look at the upturned jade seal at the boy's side to know who he was. He was, undoubtedly, incredulously, the clan leader. The target.

* * *

In a single moment, all the adrenaline in his veins melted into fear. Terror flooded up within him and all of a sudden, the spacious room had closed in, swallowing them all in a black grave of men and boys. Claustrophobia clamped down on his rib cafe, and he was weighed down, as if tethered by a boa constrictor. With every inhale, his breath became shallower and shallower, racing to match the ragged gasps of the child.

 _Death bringer and clan master were drowning together._

The trance was broken, and his resolve shattered like glass in his mind. Shards of doubt began to nip at his seams. In what world was the killing of a child justified?

The assassin gaped down at the clan leader, and another shudder wrenched at his chest. He looked no older than nine or ten.

He watched, suddenly alarmed, as blood began to fill the creases between the boy's lips. He had bit through his tongue to silence himself. Burnished brown eyes peered up to gaze upon his killer. The look of unadulterated revelation dawned on his face. The boy could see his murderer. And he too, was a mere boy.

The assassin looked something like a fifteen year old. He stood in panicked contemplation. Hundreds of men had died at his sword. His title was synonymous to slaughter. He waded through the blood of his enemies. He did not fear death, but now, child at his feet, he had never been more afraid to deal it out. Logic scrambled in his mind. Why should it matter if the clan leader were a boy?

Murder the figure-head, end all legitimacy to the clan. Those were his orders. There was no negotiation. There was no alternative heir. Infighting would ensue, a power struggle within a power struggle- but the clan was nothing without its bloodline. It was how things worked. He was a boy, but whoever pulled his strings would lose their means of power. The assassination was a fail safe. Those orders were the will of his commander, Katsura, and there would be no mistake; the Shishi do not make mistakes, and never like this. If he could not trust Katsura, then who else, what else could he trust? There was only now to do the deed, or the clan would reorganise and retaliate- there were no other chances. But why did it feel so _wrong_. If he spared his life, wouldn't he be betraying Katsura? Betraying the Ishin Shishi he had pledged to? The revolution he was fighting for? He would be turning his back on everything he had mutilated himself protect. All the lines he had crossed. _All the blood on his hands._

A voice which could strike fear in his heart rang up inside him. _Kenwa kioki. Kenjustsu is the art of killing._ The Hiten Mitsurugi ryu that his master had imparted him, was a style of divinity. Protect the weak. Stand by those who could not fight for themselves. And he had murdered to uphold that. But what about now? He crumpled a little, edging into a slouch as the dead weighed him down. He carried all the ghosts of the revolution. Why would the addition of a child matter? The boy was still scrunched in place, drinking in the youthful face of his killer, eyes unable to rip away from the cross-shaped scar. Like a trophy, he thought. Or a brand. From this distance, he could tell one gash was raw and new. And bleeding.

The assasin's thoughts were so loud, the boy could almost hear it. If he was old enough to rule the clan, old enough to hinder the Shishi, he was old enough to die. Just as the assassin was old enough to kill. He could already see the gates of hell. He had one foot stepped onto a carpet of bones. He'd long lost count of those he had slain; the mountains of corpses he had left to adorn the floors of the underworld. He scaled them in his dreams, every time going higher, higher. Night after night, the cloth of the navy gi stank with the smell of death. At the peak of the pile, was the scent of white plum flowers.

His breath faltered in his mouth. There it was. The cold, stark truth. He had given himself up in more ways than he thought possible. He had sacrificed everything to restore this peace. Everyone. Even her. He could not let one, small clan leader undo his everything for the revolution. All was laid bare before him.

 _Kill the boy._

The hitokiri flexed his fingers around the hilt of his katana, willing his body stoic, back into control. It only need comply with his thoughts for a second. The boy peered at him, pleading.

 _This is the will of Katsura- san. Your death would bring us closer to the new era. This is tenchuu. It is tenchuu. Tenchuu._

The assassin lifted his katana, and pointed the tip between his eyes.

 _"P- pleplease. I doing want to feel...anymore pain...please.."_ The world collapsed within him.

" _I promise, there would be no pain. "_

 _" pplease, don't hurt my clan...after this...don't kill anyone in , in my clan"_

 _"... I promise, young master."_ He lied.

 _" ...thanks..."_

 _" ..."_

 _"... thank y-"_

He spasmed his wrist in a forward drive, the Hiten Mitsurugi lasting one, godly second. He watched the boy let out a single breath of air, like a sigh. The light had already left his eyes. They stared still, transfixed and unseeing, on the cross-shaped scar. The assassin withdrew, and was forced to face the thin, gushing slit in his forehead. Without the bitter rasps of the little boy, silence permeated into his skin. Only the drip drop of crimson off the blade dared the silence. He fought one shaking arm to reach into his sleeve, producing two crumpled pieces of paper.

 _Hitokiri Battousai of the Ishin shishi._

 _Tenchuu._

The assassin lingered a moment longer, sombrely admiring his work. He closed his eyes, and he couldn't see the girl with the white plum scent. Voices began to ring out louder, and lights flickered increasingly closer outside. The shadows within the room began to grow and disperse, going left and right. Hitokiri Battousai sheathed his katana. He recoiled, slowly stepping into position- straightening his back and lowering his eyes to the floor. Battousai bent his back, and bowed his head low before the child.

 _"_ _Young Master"_

Boy rose before boy.

Time ticked. A flurry of men burst into the room, overstepping the pools of red, searching frantically for one or the other. Only bodies adorned the room. The whisper of a breeze swept through an open window, and the bloody pools were ridden with ripples.

* * *

Epilogue

Outside, the wolves ran free. They stalked, roaming the streets in their packs where the light of the estate shied away in fear. They circled its outskirts, pacing its boundaries and cutting off its corners, marking their territory. Marking their battleground. The night nurtured its demons, but the moon tended to its wolves. And they were hungry. The third Shinsengumi leader was starved. He'd been living on scraps, picking off the bones of the weak and diseased, left scavenging on rats on his hunt for demons.

His pack was mangy and flea-infested, shoving restlessly behind him. He led the unit to scatter the dark, circling the frenzied estate. Within those walls, there was uproar: but that was of no concern to the Wolves of Mibu. Let them scuttle around like lice- entire clans had risen and fallen from less. He was starving. And disappointed. How long has it been since his last fight- the last time he had a damned purpose to draw his katana? He'd no prey to stalk and no rivals to spite. When was the last time he was sighted? Five months? Six? The wolf growled, eyes flashing around the barren terrain outside the white walls of the estate. He was grieving. Had the demons truly been driven from the city already? Laughable.

 _"Fan out"_

Immediately, the wolves lurched apart, katanas held at the ready. The third unit Shinsengumi leader scoffed at them. _Their heads down, noses stuck to the floor, sniffing out a trail._ What point was there? Hitokiri Battousai left no trails. His wolves were a ragtag of runts and mutts, chasing their tails and wasting their energy. But he had remained, where others had perished. These were the only men suicidal or idealistic enough to join, or stay. He too, was thirsty for thrill, but he would survive longer than any of these men would manage, looking for it. War was like that.

They ran away free, leaving him to mourn a long-won victory.

It was the smell that first hit his senses, and he spun around, eyes darting about. The smell of _blood_ lay heavy in the air. From the rooftop directly opposite him, a silhouette stiffened. _Kyoto running out of killers? Heh. Incredulous. Run, or fight then, you choose._ The figure skidded off the edge, landing somewhat gracefully before the Mibu wolf. _Why, we are in Kyoto of course, so fight it shall be._ Their hands flew to their weapons. Amber eyes met brown, and both widened in sudden recognition.

 _"...Battousai"_

 _"...Saito..."_

The man paused briefly, then let out a short sigh. " _And here I was disappointed that someone had taken my kill away from me"_

The hitokiri stood motionless, hand still at the grasp of the katana. He smiled a sad, tired smile, so solemn as if a great weight hung upon it. It was unnerving. Seeing Battousai, who so carefully hardened his emotions, let slip like this. But the Mibu wolf knew this face. It was his reflection after he had stuck his katana in comrades who had begged for him to end their misery. It was the face of men thrust into their very first battle. The face of women bought off the streets. The face warriors made in seppuku. The face that had just discovered the worst horror mankind could manifest in this world, and no tears could possibly convey it. Nothing could convey it, other than a smile. A shudder ran down his spine. He saw that smile in Battousai, the most horrific murderer in Kyoto. More haunted and heavier than he'd ever seen it anywhere else. This was a war. The things he saw drove other men from sanity. What could he have seen to become like this? What could he have possibly done that was worse than what he already does?

 _"...I've disappointed you...I can see"_

 _" Yes. Disappointed you're not dead, and happy to finally have my chance claiming your life, as we agreed months ago..."_

 _" I too...am humbled you're still...not dead"_

 _"Hmph, the infamous Hitokiri Battousai stupidly stumbles into the mibu's path. Pathetic. Even in my dreams I'd give you more credit"_

 _" ...after months, you've become rather... sentimental, Saito"_

 _" ...welcome back to hell, Battousai"_

Why the hell come back if you got out? Battousai sprang forward, unsheathing his katana horizontally, mid-step. The gatotsu met it halfway, scraping the blade all the way to the hilt. The samurai separate, both scrambling to take a hold on their footing after having thrust everything into the clash. Brown eyes stared down into amber. The hitokiri hovered a hand over his katana hilt once more, eyes following the third unit shinsengumi's erratic gesture. The Shinsengumi had sheathed his sword.

"Get out of my face tonight, _boy"_

The hitokiri watched on, confusion not even settling on his tired, _tired_ face. The Mibu wolf's eyes skimmed over the unfamiliar cut on his cheek.

"Come back to finish this fight when you become the demon again... then I'll kill you"

To his surprise, the wolf turned upon his heel, and left. Back turned, the third unit Shinsengumi _smiled,_ like everything was not alright.

The last thing that made sense in this war, did not.

* * *

 **Glossary and Writer's notes:**

Morose- adjective-sullenly ill-humored, as a person or mood- or expressing gloom.

Gi- clothing article that samurai wore, um, literally look up any pic of Kenshin he's always wearing it- in the bakumatsu war he wears a navy blue one, in the main story its red~

Katana- japanese-styled sword, only one edge is sharp

Tenchuu\- 'heaven's rule' or 'heaven's judgement' Opposite of 'Jinchuu'

Ishin Shishi- the imperialists or 'patriots'/ pro-emperor/ ppl who want to create the meji era- kenshin fought for this side

Shinsengumi- Ruthless combat group that fought for the existing government and against the Ishin Shishi- Saito Hajime is on this side

Wolves of Mibu- nickname for the Shinsengumi (apparently they are called this because one of their early offices was stationed around the city/village of Mibu, Japan, and the term wolves was coined because of their cruelty and pride)

katsura\- mentioned once, he was Kenshin's commander and one of the main leaders of the Ishin Shishi in that time

Hitokiri\- assassin- Hitokiri Battousai is kenshin's title ofc

* * *

 **Writer's notes:**

I am so humbled for you to have read so far, thank you so very much. I hope I did justice to for Kenshin's character, and hope that you enjoyed the fic.

Please, I'm totally open for any criticism etc What did u like? What did u hate?

Do you think Kenshin was justified in his decision in the end? Do you think Katsura, or the Ishin Shishi _knew_ that the target was a little boy? What do you think of Saito's reaction? I would love nothing more than a review.

The young clan master came into power by family inheritance, btw. I do wish I could have elaborated on him- he in fact ok'd orders that ended in death as well- though those orders were written up by someone else, a manipulator. A child had blood on his hands too.

Also, I apologise the timeline is slightly off- this is meant to take place after the events in the OVA Trust and Betrayal, after Tomoe's death. There is heavy allusion to her character, ultimately it is the thought of her sacrifice which drives kenshin to kill the boy. Its ironic, cos she was the one that turned him away from the hitokiri violence before.

Anyhow, it was meant to be set as the first time Kenshin returns to his job back in Kyoto, and one of his last assignments before his dismissal into the general forces. (cos Shishio replaced Kenshin remember). The epilogue was planned to be Saito's first encounter of Kenshin after his disappearance (went into hiding with Tomoe). However I randomly remembered that Kenshin fights Saito at the end of Trust and Betrayal, so I guess u could treat this as an AU.

Also also, I mentioned that Kenshin _looked_ about 14/ 15, though he should be in his late teens by now. So, technically he's not that young at this point. But, hell, anyone at this age is too young to be basically be indoctrinated into fighting an intensely bloody war.

I picked the title 'The Morose' because it kinda mimics 'Les Miserables' (which have similarities now that I think about it...ok other than the revolutions in both...) Special thanks for the guys on tumblr who helped me decide! The working title for this was : Young enough to kill, Old enough to die (which was too plot-spoilery.)

I love deep themes and wordy, wordy writing. Sowi. Please ask for any elaborating, I'll be totally happy to do so!

I also got super carried away and wrote a fudgin explanation on the epilogue alone. I mean, really, really carried away. This is a oneshot, but I think I'll put it in the next chapter in case anyone wants to read.

Truly, thank you

-earl


End file.
